


In All My Dreams I Drown

by notexactlycappuccinointheclouds



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Angst, Drowning, Fear, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notexactlycappuccinointheclouds/pseuds/notexactlycappuccinointheclouds
Summary: Neal dreams about drowning. In Neal's dreams, Peter can't save him.[Possible trigger warning: nightmares, hopelessness, intense fear, and drowning.]
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	In All My Dreams I Drown

He couldn’t pin-point exactly when it had started. The first time he woke up gasping for air was the night after Adler’s death, but he knew it wasn’t the first time he’d had that dream. The waves had been swallowing him whole long before that.   
It isn’t the kind of thing you talk about. Nobody wants to hear about somebody else’s dreams. Especially not the bad ones. And Neal’s dreams just kept getting worse. 

  
Early on, it had almost been peaceful. He’d been laying down on a beach somewhere and the waves simply swept in and swept out. Swept in and swept out. Slowly bringing him out to sea. In time, he sank down beneath the surface. No panic. Just a fade to black like in the movies. Each night brought a different version of the same dream and each night the drowning became more awful. In the weeks following Adler’s death he’d watched himself drown in dozens of different circumstances. He’d been driving a car and drove it off a pier. He’d fought against the glass windows trying to escape as the water rose, little by little. Another night, he’d been swimming when someone he couldn’t see grabbed him and held his head under the surface. Didn’t let go no matter how hard he tried to fight.

He tried to reason with himself. Calm himself down. It’d become part of his routine: He’d wake up in a cold sweat and give himself a little pep talk about how it was only a dream, a bad one sure, but only a dream. Dreams can’t hurt you. They’re just your mind cleaning out all the dust in your subconscious. The routine worked… somewhat. He knew he wasn’t getting enough sleep. There’s no way of simply relaxing and drifting off after you’ve just drowned inside your own mind. Still, he adjusted. He made it work. He prided himself on being resilient and he wasn’t about to let a few bad dreams break him down.   
But the dreams didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. Every night a new drowning. A new panic. A new loss. 

  
Finally one night it became too much. He’d dreamed he was alone, in a plain cement room. It reminded him of a prison cell, except even bleaker — as if that was possible. No furniture. No color. Just gray walls and floors and fluorescent lights up above. Not even a door with a lock he could pick to escape. No one around he could con into letting him go. Just quiet and gray and cold. He barely noticed it at first, the water leaking in. It seeped in through the seemingly impenetrable walls at the line where they met the floor. He didn’t know why but he knew he was screaming. There was no one around to hear, but he had to scream. He knew what was coming. What was going to happen. The only thing that could happen. The only reaction to that kind of thing is to scream. The water rose. And rose. And rose. It reached his ankles. And then his knees. He tried to beat on the walls and hope that maybe someone would rescue him. Maybe Peter would rescue him. Peter always found him, right? Peter would find him. Peter would get him out of this. But really, who was he kidding? Walls that thick, no one would hear him even if he broke every bone in his hand beating against them. So the water rose. And rose. And rose. It reached his sternum, then his collarbones, then it crept up his neck. He started treading water, trying to keep himself above the surface. The water just carried him up with it, till he was face to face with the ceiling, screaming Peter’s name as if Peter could show up at any moment and save him. The water filled his mouth. Filled his throat. Made its way into his lungs.   
He woke up at the moment he knew he was dying. He sat up in bed, shaking. Once he trusted his knees to carry him, he got up and turned every light in the apartment on. He stood out on the balcony, leaned against the railing and breathed. Focused on breathing. Held his head in his hands and tried to think about nothing but counting each inhale. 

  
By sunrise, breathing was easier and the shaking had stopped. He went to work. He got through his day. But that night he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. The thought sent him halfway into a panic. He drank coffee. Sketched lovely things: people he knew, cities he’d seen. When his hands were tired, he paced the floors. When he tired of that, he went back to sketching. It became his new routine. How to live without sleeping: Coffee, sketching, pacing. Some rational voice inside his head that sounded oddly like Peter told him he couldn’t keep going like this, but he didn’t listen. Didn’t want to listen. He was Neal Caffrey. He could live however he wanted to. And if he wanted to live without sleeping, without those godawful dreams, that was exactly what he was going to do.   
He became more erratic at work. He smiled less, took more un-calculated risks. He stared down more barrels and took more punches. Peter noticed. Of course, Peter noticed. Everyone noticed. Diana took him aside one afternoon to ask him if he was okay. He appreciated the concern, but assured her he was fine.   
Peter didn’t voice his concern. Instead, he lectured Neal about due process and doing things by-the-book. In the past, Neal would have pacified him. Given him a signature Caffrey smile and promised to tread with more care in the future. Now though, Neal bit back. The lectures turned into all-out screaming matches with both partners knowing exactly where it hurt. 

  
Peter could see the perfectly crafted image of Neal Caffrey shattering in front of him. Laying awake at night, wondering where the hell things had gone wrong, he’d admit to himself that he was terrified. He wasn’t just losing Neal Caffrey, the world-famous art thief — He was losing his friend. His best friend. He was losing Neal.   
In the morning, a new case landed on Peter’s desk. A crime syndicate was embroiled in a plan to steal a famous paining by Alfred Guillou. Despite his better judgment, he let Neal go in.   
It almost seemed like a good idea. The new case gave Neal a little bit of his usual spark back. He smiled at Peter as they talked out how to catch the guys. He even did a hat trick as he left the van.

  
Of course, Neal wasn’t surprised by how it ended. He’d known as soon as he’d seen the lake. The tough-guy had knocked him out with the butt of his gun, and he’d woken up in the water. Or maybe, he hadn’t woken up at all. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. That’s what it was, he figured, he’d fallen asleep. He’d been trying not to do that. Once you’re asleep though, there’s no point fighting it. These dreams are not the kinds of dreams you can fight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song by American Murder Song


End file.
